seeing me.
“It is quite impossible,” she was saying. “Madame would be quite
hysterical. She needs an hour’s rest, and every one must wait!”
For some little time I could hear a confused murmur which seemed to get
farther away, and then I fell into a delicious sleep, laughing to myself
as I went off, for my good temper returned as I pictured the angry,
nonplussed expression on the faces of my visitors.
I woke in an hour’s time, for I have the precious gift of being able to
sleep ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, or an hour, just as I like, and
I then wake up quite peacefully without a shake at the time I choose to
rouse up. Nothing does me so much good as this rest to body and mind,
decided upon and regulated merely by my will.
Very often when among my intimate friends I have lain down on the bear-
skin hearth-rug in front of the fire, telling every one to go on
talking, and to take no notice of me. I have then slept perhaps for an
hour, and on waking have found two or three new-comers in the room, who,
not wishing to disturb me, have taken part in the general conversation
whilst waiting until I should wake up and they could present their
respects to me. Even now I lie down on the huge wide sofa in the little
Empire _salon_ which leads into my dressing-room, and I sleep whilst
waiting for the friends and artistes with whom I have made appointments
to be ushered in. When I open my eyes I see the faces of my kind
friends, who shake hands cordially, delighted that I should have had
some rest. My mind is then tranquil, and I am ready to listen to all the
beautiful ideas proposed to me, or to decline the absurdities submitted
to me without being ungracious.
I woke up then at the Albemarle Hotel an hour later, and found myself
lying on the rug. I opened the door of my room, and discovered my dear
Guérard and my faithful Félicie seated on a trunk.
“Are there any people there still?” I asked.
“Oh, Madame, there are about a hundred now,” answered Félicie.
“Help me to take my things off then quickly,” I said, “and find me a
white dress.”
In about five minutes I was ready, and I felt that I looked nice from
head to foot. I went into the drawing-room where all these unknown
persons were waiting. Jarrett came forward to meet me, but on seeing me
well dressed and with a smiling face he postponed the sermon that he
wanted to preach to me.
I should like to introduce Jarrett to my readers, for he was a most
extraordinary man. He was then about sixty-five or seventy years of age.
He was tall, with a face like King Agamemnon, framed by the most
beautiful silver-white hair I have ever seen on a man’s head. His eyes
were of so pale a blue that when they lighted up with anger he looked as
though he were blind. When he was calm and tranquil, admiring nature,
his face was really handsome, but when gay and animated his upper lip
showed his teeth and curled up in a most ferocious sniff, and his grins
seemed to be caused by the drawing up of his pointed ears, which were
always moving as though on the watch for prey.
He was a terrible man, extremely intelligent; but from childhood he must
have been fighting with the world, and he had the most profound contempt
for all mankind. Although he must have suffered a great deal himself, he
had no pity for others who suffered. He always said that every man was
armed for his own defence. He pitied women; did not care for them, but
was always ready to help them. He was very rich and very economical, but
not miserly.
“I made my way in life,” he often said to me, “by the aid of two
weapons: honesty and a revolver. In business honesty is the most
terrible weapon a man can use against rascals and crafty people. The
former don’t know what it is and the latter don’t believe in it; while
the revolver is an admirable invention for compelling scoundrels to keep
their word.”
He used to tell me about wonderful and terrifying adventures.
He had a deep scar under his right eye. During a violent discussion
about a contract to be signed for Jenny Lind, the celebrated singer,
Jarrett said to his interlocutor, pointing at the same time to his right
eye: “Look at that eye, sir. It is now reading in your mind all that you
are not saying.”
“It doesn’t know how to read, then, for it never foresaw that,” said the
other, firing his revolver at Jarrett’s right eye.
“A bad shot, sir,” replied Jarrett. “This is the way to take aim for
effectually closing an eye.”
And he put a ball between the two eyes of the other man, who fell down
dead.
When Jarrett told this story his lip curled up and his two incisors
appeared to be crunching the words with delight, and his bursts of
stifled laughter sounded like the snapping of his jaws. He was an
upright, honest man, though, and I liked him very much, and I like what
I remember of him.
My first impression was a joyful one, and I clapped my hands with
delight as I entered the drawing-room, which I had not yet seen. The
busts of Racine, Molière, and Victor Hugo were on pedestals surrounded
with flowers. All round the large room were sofas laden with cushions,
and, to remind me of my home in Paris, there were tall palms stretching
out their branches over the sofas. Jarrett introduced Knoedler, who had
suggested this piece of gallantry. He was a very charming man. I shook
hands with him, and we were friends from that time forth.
The visitors soon went away, but the reporters remained. They were all
seated, some of them on the arms of the chairs, others on the cushions.
One of them had crouched down tailor-fashion on a bear-skin, and was
leaning back against the steam heater. He was pale and thin, and coughed
a great deal. I went towards him, and had just opened my lips to speak
to him, although I was rather shocked that he did not rise, when he
addressed me in a bass voice.
“Which is your favourite _rôle_, Madame?” he asked.
“That is no concern of yours,” I answered, turning my back on him. In
doing so I knocked against another reporter, who was more polite.
“What do you eat when you wake in the morning, Madame?” he inquired.
I was about to reply to him as I had done to the first one, but Jarrett,
who had had difficulty in appeasing the anger of the crouching man,
answered quickly for me, “Oatmeal.” I did not know what that dish was,
but the ferocious reporter continued his questions.
“And what do you eat during the day?”
“Mussels.”
He wrote down phlegmatically, “Mussels during the day.”
I moved towards the door, and a female reporter in a tailor-made skirt,
with her hair cut short, asked me in a clear, sweet voice, “Are you a
Jewess-Catholic-Protestant-Mohammedan-Buddhist-Atheist-Zoroaster-Theist-
or-Deist?” I stood still, rooted to the spot in bewilderment. She had
said all that in a breath, accenting the syllables haphazard, and making
of the whole one word so wildly incoherent that my impression was that I
was not in safety near this strange, gentle person. I must have looked
uneasy, and as my eyes fell on an elderly lady who was talking gaily to
a little group of people, she came to my rescue, saying in very good
French, “This young lady is asking you, Madame, whether you are of the
Jewish religion or whether you are a Catholic, a Protestant, a
Mohammedan, a Buddhist, an Atheist, a Zoroastrian, a Theist, or a
Deist.”
I sank down on a couch.
“Oh, Heavens!” I exclaimed, “will it be like this in all the cities I
visit?”
“Oh no,” answered Jarrett placidly; “your interviews will be wired
throughout America.”
“What about the mussels?” I thought to myself, and then in an absent-
minded way I answered, “I am a Catholic, Mademoiselle.”
“A Roman Catholic, or do you belong to the Orthodox Church?” she asked.
I jumped up from my seat, for she bored me beyond endurance, and a very
young man then approached timidly.
“Will you allow me to finish my sketch, Madame?” he asked.
I remained standing, my profile turned towards him at his request. When
he had finished I asked to see what he had done, and, perfectly
unabashed, he handed me his horrible drawing of a skeleton with a curly
wig. I tore the sketch up and threw it at him, but the following day
that horror appeared in the papers, with a disagreeable inscription
beneath it. Fortunately I was able to speak seriously about my art with
a few honest and intelligent journalists, but twenty-five years ago
reporters’ paragraphs were more appreciated in America than serious
articles, and the public, very much less literary then than at present,
always seemed ready to echo the turpitudes invented by reporters hard up
for copy. I should think that no creature in the world, since the
invention of reporting, has ever had as much to endure as I had during
that first tour. The basest calumnies were circulated by my enemies long
before I arrived in America, there was all the treachery of the friends
of the Comédie, and even of my own admirers, who hoped that I should not
succeed on my tour, so that I might return more quickly to the fold,
humiliated, calmed down, and subdued. Then there were the exaggerated
announcements invented by my _impresario_ Abbey and my representative
Jarrett. These announcements were often outrageous and always
ridiculous; but I did not know their real source until long afterwards,
when it was too late—much too late—to undeceive the public, who were
fully persuaded that I was the instigator of all these inventions. I
therefore did not attempt to undeceive them. It matters very little to
me whether people believe one thing or another.
Life is short, even for those who live a long time, and we must live for
the few who know and appreciate us, who judge and absolve us, and for
whom we have the same affection and indulgence. The rest I look upon as
a mere crowd, lively or sad, loyal or corrupt, from whom there is
nothing to be expected but fleeting emotions, either pleasant or
unpleasant, which leave no trace behind them. We ought to hate very
rarely, as it is too fatiguing; remain indifferent to a great deal,
forgive often and never forget. Forgiving does not mean forgetting—at
least, it does not with me. I will not mention here any of the
outrageous and infamous attacks that were made upon me, as it would be
doing too great an honour to the wretched people who were responsible
for them, from beginning to end dipping their pen in the gall of their
own souls. All I can say is that nothing kills but death, and that any
one who wishes to defend himself or herself from slander can do it. For
that one must live. It is not given to every one to be able to do it,
but it depends on the will of God, who sees and judges.
I took two days’ rest before going to the theatre, for I could feel the
movement of the ship all the time: my head was dizzy, and it seemed to
me as though the ceiling moved up and down. The twelve days on the sea
had quite upset my health. I sent a line to the stage manager, telling
him that we would rehearse on Wednesday, and on that day, as soon as
luncheon was over, I went to Booth’s Theatre, where our performances
were to take place. At the stage door I saw a compact, swaying crowd,
very much animated and gesticulating. These strange-looking individuals
did not belong to the world of actors. They were not reporters either,
for I knew them too well, alas! to be mistaken in them. They were not
there out of curiosity either, these people, for they seemed too much
occupied, and then, too, there were only men. When my carriage drew up,
one of them rushed forward to the door of it and then returned to the
swaying crowd. “Here she is! Here she is!” I heard, and then all these
common men, with their white neckties and questionable-looking hands,
with their coats flying open, and trousers the knees of which were worn
and dirty-looking, crowded behind me into the narrow passage leading to
the staircase. I did not feel very easy in my mind, and I mounted the
stairs rapidly. Several persons were waiting for me at the top: Mr.
Abbey, Jarrett, and also some reporters, two gentlemen and a charming
and most distinguished woman, whose friendship I have kept ever since,
although she does not care much for French people. I saw Mr. Abbey, who
was usually very dignified and cold, advance in the most gracious and
courteous way to one of the men who were following me. They raised their
hats to each other, and, followed by the strange and brutal-looking
regiment, they advanced towards the centre of the stage.
I then saw the strangest of sights. In the middle of the stage were my
forty-two trunks. In obedience to a sign, twenty of the men came
forward, and placing themselves each one between two trunks, with a
quick movement with their right and left hands they took the covers off
the trunks on the right and left of them. Jarrett, with frowns and an
unpleasant grin, held out my keys to them. He had asked me that morning
for my keys for the Customs.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said; “don’t be uneasy,” and the way in which my
luggage had always been respected in other countries had given me
perfect confidence about it.
The principal personage of the ugly group came towards me, accompanied
by Abbey, and Jarrett explained things to me. The man was an official
from the American Custom-house.
The Custom-house is an abominable institution in every country, but
worse in America than anywhere else. I was prepared for all this, and
was most affable to the tormentor of a traveller’s patience. He raised
the melon which served him for a hat, and without taking his cigar out
of his mouth made some incomprehensible remark to me. He then turned to
his regiment of men, made an abrupt sign with his hand, and uttered some
word of command, whereupon the forty dirty hands of these twenty men
proceeded to forage among my velvets, satins, and laces. I rushed
forward to save my poor dresses from such outrageous violation, and I
ordered the lady of our company who had charge of the costumes to lift
my gowns out one at a time, which she accordingly did, aided by my maid,
who was in tears at the small amount of respect shown by these boors to
all my beautiful, fragile things. Two ladies had just arrived, very
noisy and businesslike. One of them was short and stout: her nose seemed
to begin at the roots of her hair; she had round, placid-looking eyes,
and a mouth like a snout; her arms she was hiding timidly behind her
heavy flabby bust, and her ungainly knees seemed to come straight out of
her groin. She looked like a seated cow. Her companion was like a
terrapin, with her little black evil-looking head at the end of a neck
which was too long and very stringy. She kept shooting it out of her boa
and drawing it back with the most incredible rapidity. The rest of her
body bulged out flat. These two delightful persons were the dressmakers
sent for by the Custom-house to value my costumes. They glanced at me in
a furtive way, and gave a little bow full of bitterness and jealous rage
at the sight of my dresses; and I was quite aware that two more enemies
had now come upon the scene. These two odious shrews began to chatter
and argue, pawing and crumpling my dresses and cloaks at the same time.
They kept exclaiming in the most emphatic way, “Oh, how beautiful! What
magnificence! What luxury! All our customers will want gowns like these,
and we shall never be able to make them! It will be the ruin of all the
American dressmakers.” They were working up the judges into a state of
excitement for this chiffon court-martial. They kept lamenting, then
going into raptures and asking for “justice” against foreign invasion.
The ugly band of men nodded their heads in approval, and spat on the
ground to affirm their independence. Suddenly the Terrapin turned on one
of the inquisitors:
“Oh, isn’t it beautiful? Show it! show it!” she exclaimed, seizing on a
dress all embroidered with pearls, which I wore in _La Dame aux
Camélias_.
“This dress is worth at least ten thousand dollars,” she said; and then,
coming up to me, she asked, “How much did you pay for that dress,
Madame?”
I ground my teeth together and would not answer, for just at that moment
I should have enjoyed seeing the Terrapin in one of the saucepans in the
Albemarle Hotel kitchen. It was nearly half-past five, and my feet were
frozen. I was half dead, too, with fatigue and suppressed anger. The
rest of the examination was postponed until the next day, and the ugly
band of men offered to put everything back in the trunks, but I objected
to that. I sent out for five hundred yards of blue tarlatan to cover
over the mountain of dresses, hats, cloaks, shoes, laces, linen,
stockings, furs, gloves, &c. &c. They then made me take my oath to
remove nothing, for they had such charming confidence in me, and I left
my steward there in charge. He was the husband of Félicie, my maid, and
a bed was put up for him on the stage. I was so nervous and upset that I
wanted to go somewhere far away, to have some fresh air, and to stay out
for a long time. A friend offered to take me to see Brooklyn Bridge.
“That masterpiece of American genius will make you forget the petty
miseries of our red tape affairs,” he said gently, and so we set out for
Brooklyn Bridge.
Oh, that bridge! It is insane, admirable, imposing; and it makes one
feel proud. Yes, one is proud to be a human being when one realises that
a brain has created and suspended in the air, fifty yards from the
ground, that fearful thing which bears a dozen trains filled with
passengers, ten or twelve tramcars, a hundred cabs, carriages, and
carts, and thousands of foot passengers; and all that moving along
together amidst the uproar of the music of the metals—clanging,
clashing, grating, and groaning under the enormous weight of people and
things. The movement of the air caused by this frightful tempestuous
coming and going caused me to feel giddy and stopped my breath.
I made a sign for the carriage to stand still, and I closed my eyes. I
then had a strange, undefinable sensation of universal chaos. I opened
my eyes again when my brain was a little more tranquil, and I saw New
York stretching out along the river, wearing its night ornaments, which
glittered as much through its dress with thousands of electric lights as
the firmament with its tunic of stars.
I returned to the hotel reconciled with this great nation.
I went to sleep, tired in body but rested in mind, and had such
delightful dreams that I was in a good humour the following day. I adore
dreams, and my sad, unhappy days are those which follow dreamless
nights.
My great grief is that I cannot choose my dreams. How many times I have
done all in my power at the end of a happy day to make myself dream a
continuation of it. How many times I have called up the faces of those I
love just before falling asleep; but my thoughts wander and carry me off
elsewhere, and I prefer that a hundred times over to the absolute
negation of thought.
When I am asleep my body has an infinite sense of enjoyment, but it is
torture to me for my thoughts to slumber.
My vital forces rebel against such negation of life. I am quite willing
to die once for all, but I object to slight deaths such as those of
which one has the sensation on dreamless nights. When I awoke my maid
told me that Jarrett was waiting for me to go to the theatre so that the
valuation of my costumes could be terminated. I sent word to Jarrett
that I had seen quite enough of the regiment from the Custom-house, and
I asked him to finish everything without me, as Madame Guérard would be
there. During the next two days the Terrapin, the Seated Cow, and the
Black Band made notes for the Custom-house, took sketches for the papers
and patterns of my dresses for customers. I began to get impatient, as
we ought to have been rehearsing. Finally, I was told on Thursday
morning that the business was over, and that I could not have my trunks
until I had paid twenty-eight thousand francs for duty. I was seized
with such a violent fit of laughing that poor Abbey, who had been
terrified, caught it from me, and even Jarrett showed his cruel teeth.
“My dear Abbey,” I exclaimed, “arrange as you like about it, but I must
make my _début_ on Monday the 8th of November, and to-day is Thursday. I
shall be at the theatre on Monday to dress. See that I have my trunks,
for there was nothing about the Custom-house in my contract. I will pay
half, though, of what you have to give.”
The twenty-eight thousand francs were handed over to an attorney who
made a claim in my name on the Board of Customs. My trunks were left
with me, thanks to this payment, and the rehearsals commenced at Booth’s
Theatre.
On Monday, November 8, at 8.30, the curtain rose for the first
performance of _Adrienne Lecouvreur_. The house was crowded, and the
seats, which had been sold to the highest bidders and then sold by them
again, had fetched exorbitant prices. I was awaited with impatience and
curiosity, but not with any sympathy. There were no young girls present,
as the piece was too immoral. Poor Adrienne Lecouvreur!
The audience was very polite to the artistes of my company, but rather
impatient to see the strange person who had been described to them.
In the play the curtain falls at the end of the first act without
Adrienne having appeared. A person in the house, very much annoyed,
asked to see Mr. Henry Abbey. “I want my money back,” he said, “as la
Bernhardt is not in every act.” Abbey refused to return the money to the
extraordinary individual, and as the curtain was going up he hurried
back to take possession of his seat again. My appearance was greeted by
several rounds of applause, which I believe had been paid for in advance
by Abbey and Jarrett. I commenced, and the sweetness of my voice in the
fable of the “Two Pigeons” worked the miracle. The whole house this time
burst out into hurrahs. A current of sympathy was established between
the public and myself. Instead of the hysterical skeleton that had been
announced to them, they had before them a very frail-looking creature
with a sweet voice. The fourth act was applauded, and Adrienne’s
rebellion against the Princesse de Bouillon stirred the whole house.
Finally in the fifth act, when the unfortunate artiste is dying,
poisoned by her rival, there was quite a manifestation, and every one
was deeply moved. At the end of the third act all the young men were
sent off by the ladies to find all the musicians they could get
together, and to my surprise and delight on arriving at my hotel a
charming serenade was played for me while I was at supper. The crowd had
assembled under my windows at the Albemarle Hotel, and I was obliged to
go out on to the balcony several times to bow and to thank this public,
which I had been told I should find cold and prejudiced against me. From
the bottom of my heart I also thanked all my detractors and slanderers,
as it was through them that I had had the pleasure of fighting, with the
certainty of conquering. The victory was all the more enjoyable as I had
not dared to hope for it.
I gave twenty-seven performances in New York. The plays were _Adrienne
Lecouvreur_, _Froufrou_, _Hernani_, _La Dame aux Camélias_, _Le Sphinx_,
and _L’Etrangère_. The average receipts were 20,342 francs for each
performance, including _matinées_. The last performance was given on
Saturday, December 4, as a _matinée_, for my company had to leave that
night for Boston, and I had reserved the evening to go to Mr. Edison’s
at Menlo Park, where I had a reception worthy of fairyland.